


Perfidy

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mairon lies with a man he shouldn’t.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 10
Kudos: 105





	Perfidy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seimei (aoyagiseimei)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aoyagiseimei/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for seimeisalive’s “I would like to make another vague request for Morgoth/Sauron porn with trans Sauron and some angst” request on [my dreamwidth](https://yeaka.dreamwidth.org/1190.html?thread=32678#cmt32678). 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His head lolls across the pillow, gaze cast aside, flickering over to the window, but Marion doesn’t dare let in the light of the outside world. Usually, he needs that: there’s some comfort in the shadows, but the eyes of his flesh-ridden form need something to see by, at least when he’s at the forge, and that’s where Marion almost _always_ is. The very fact that he’s been away so long should be suspicious in itself. The drawn shutters are just another sign of his betrayal. He keeps expecting them to burst open and Manwë’s radiance to shine through, Aulë swiftly behind him, and then Aulë will look down across the bed with palpable _disgust._ Mairon will have no excuse to offer. He was perfect, once. Aulë would never admit that. But Mairon was strong, true, _loyal_. Now he lies in bed with the one being he was told to never touch. 

He can still feel the ghost of Melkor’s touch all over his body. Mairon’s lashes flutter closed, and Melkor’s face is burned into them: dark and terrifying with its heady sneer: he sees the white flash of Melkor’s sharp teeth and longs to feel them biting down into his skin. He’s covered in bruises, and maybe this body is poor for that, but he needs to be corporeal to _feel_. And sick though it is, Mairon _loves_ the burn of Melkor’s jagged fingernails across his supple flesh. He savours the reddened purple circles made up of deep grooves from Melkor’s open mouth. Bits of Melkor’s saliva are slicked all over, not nearly as much as the liquid between his legs, spilling out of him all over his thighs. Mairon’s glued to the bed with it, the sheets clinging to his rear. Sweat covers the rest of him, matting his gold-red hair. Strands of it have been ripped right out, because Melkor used his hair as reins, and Mairon loved that even more. 

He loves the harsh scars along the swell of his hips. The pink scratches around the swell of his small chest. His throat is lined in a necklace of bruises. His insides _ache_ , stretched so far open, and no matter how many times he clenches his channel, it still feels horribly _empty_. He misses having Melkor’s mammoth shaft stuffed up inside him, prying his body open and thrusting so deep inside. He’s only just stopped trembling—the tremours wracked him long after Melkor finished. Mairon’s only release is a mix of clear juices mingled with Melkor’s white. One of Melkor’s hands dips between his legs to scoop some of that mess and smear it back against Mairon’s outer lips; Mairon shudders and groans. 

He tilts his head back, eyes rolling up, and surrenders to the delicious feeling of Melkor’s thick fingers toying with his entrance. Melkor’s thumb idly flicks the little nub near the top, Melkor’s index finger pressing into the slit. “You are so pretty like this, my Maia,” Melkor purrs into his ear, and guilt blossoms in Mairon’s being—he’s supposed to be _Aulë’s_.

He’s a vile traitor. A thin gold chain around Mairon’s left ankle is his only speck of surviving clothing: a single gift of Melkor that was enough to dissolve all of his clothes. Mairon himself has made so many trinkets that he could drown Melkor’s one offering, but it wasn’t just the little gift Melkor knelt before him to fasten on. It was the way Melkor did it—how he bent down to peer up at Mairon, eyes wrought with more fire than Mairon’s eternal forge. Melkor had been so deft, so delicate, the skill in his hands all too obvious. When he rose to his feet again, he leant over Mairon’s shoulder, and he said so many things that Mairon so desperately _craved_. Melkor praised his work, acknowledged his strength, made it sound as though Mairon were worthy of the Valar: so much _more_ than just a petty servant. Aulë’s never looked at Mairon the way that Melkor does, as though he’s _someone special_. Maybe Mairon is weak to fall for that. 

Melkor toys with Mairon’s body like he could pleasure Mairon in his sleep. He’s so damn _good_. He trails that sticky mess up Mairon’s middle to squeeze one of Mairon’s small breasts, palm grinding down against his nipple. Mairon whimpers and _squirms_ , arching into the touch whilst knowing he should pull away. He knows exactly what’s happening, exactly what Melkor’s doing, but it’s _working_ , because Melkor makes Mairon feel like the brightest gem of all. Melkor brushes a chaste kiss across his cheek and murmurs, “What troubles you, my love?”

Distantly, Mairon remembers what Aulë said— _Melkor can’t love anything_. He’s a destructive force only, while Mairon’s a creator. But his voice is like molten lava dribbling deliciously down Mairon’s flushed skin, and Mairon parts his lips and answers. He’s only disobeyed Aulë in this, and never Melkor in anything. 

“I should not be here,” he mutters. But Melkor pinches his nipple and drinks in his gasp. Melkor rolls it between his thumb and index finger, tugging it lightly as Mairon moans and writhes. He’s warm again, _ready_ , his body once again humming for release. Mairon swallows anyway and admits, “Aulë—”

“Is a fool who does not appreciate you,” Melkor smoothly fills in. A hand cups Mairon’s cheek, and his face is gently rolled aside. His eyes catch on Melkor’s parted lips, and Melkor pulls him in to press their mouths together. Mairon barely has time to groan before Melkor’s tongue is down his throat, curling against his walls and reaching ever farther. Mairon’s mouth bubbles up with wisps of steam from the heat of Melkor’s power, and he quivers for it, struggling to breathe, but he doesn’t pull away. Mairon’s never shied away from _fire._ Melkor knows just how to use it against him.

Melkor finally pulls back to hiss, “I see you for what you are, my sweet Maia. I see your beauty, your talent, your true worth. By my side, you would be king, free to build all that you would, not just with the fires of his hearth but with the flame of this very world. I would split the earth in two for you to form your frame, and the sky itself would be your hammer. You would know no limit but your own exhaustion, and I would be there to wring even that from you.”

It’s all empty platitudes. That’s what Mairon should believe. Instead, he feels his desire rising, his channel clenching with _want_ —he’s growing wet again. Melkor’s grin widens, as though he knows exactly what Mairon wishes for and will deliver that too. Melkor chuckles, “Or do you need more convincing?”

Mairon sucks in a breath. He sees his treachery for what it is and still spreads his legs right open. Melkor’s eyes flicker down to the movement, obviously understanding the implication. He releases Mairon’s nipple, instead scratching back down to quickly shove two fingers inside Mairon’s hole. Mairon cries out, twisting in the sheets, but he has no protest to being stretched even wider open. He’s still gaping from the last round, still soaking wet, but Melkor prepares him nonetheless. He truly believes Melkor would never hurt him. 

Melkor sucks Mairon into another kiss. Then he rolls over onto Mairon, looming up over him again, hiking his legs back and lining up against his entrance. Mairon looks up at his lover and knows full well that, for al his guilt, he’s never going to leave.


End file.
